Voracious
by VillainousVexation
Summary: V and Evey don't know who they are anymore. Set shortly after Evey's release from prison. Rating for Smut. Massive, masked smut. Heed the warning. Movieverse.


'A party leader is like a wolf, you see - like a voracious wolf. He requires a certain number of smaller victims to prey upon every year, if he is to live.'

- Henrik Ibsen

V had never seen the Shadow Gallery as a place to fear or dread. For twenty years, it had been his home, his sanctuary, the only place in his fractured world where he had complete control. No matter how much blood he had on his hands at the end of the day, or what howling demons followed him through the streets of London, the Gallery always brought him peace.

But in the days since Evey's release, things had changed. Everything had changed, really; V was no longer sure of where the boundaries were. The clearly delineated aspects of his life and mind had come under scrutiny, and were not holding up particularly well. But the change to the Gallery was the only one V allowed his mind to settle on as he headed home from another 'errand.'

V no longer enjoyed returning home. He was tired; there was blood on his gloves, and another streak across the cheek of his mask. His hair was dirty, and smelled vaguely of smoke. He should have been looking forward to a long, soothing bath, then playing his piano or reading. Instead, the idea of returning to the Gallery made him tense up, his stomach lurch.

The power had shifted. He used to frighten her, and with that fear she had given him a wide berth. He had been able to come and go as he pleased. But now, as Evey slept and ate and watched him with those dark, damning eyes, V felt shamed. Not because of what he had done. It was right; he knew that as inherently as he knew what would happen on the Fifth. Evey had become a factor he could not control. And that was beginning to tear at his calm.

He paused outside the entrance to the Gallery, absently adjusting his hat. (she will be asleep in bed away away from me and i can rest no rest for the wicked no more questions) If she was not, he would find himself cringing away from her, giving her a deference she did not warrant in what was his home. But no matter how indignant he tried to get, there was a nagging feeling that perhaps the Gallery had silently made a new alliance.

V entered the Gallery. It was quiet. Evey was not sitting on the couch reading or watching a film. The jukebox was staring at him accusingly. (don't look at me i haven't even done anything to her today i made her scones dammit) He cocked his head; there was no sound from the training room, where he would occasionally find her beating the holy hell out of the punching bag. V allowed himself to relax a bit; she must be asleep. It was past two.

V smiled faintly behind the mask. He would bathe, change his clothes and mask, make himself some tea, and relax. He had certainly earned it. It would be a pleasant evening. And maybe tomorrow, Evey would emerge from her room and smile at him, rather than looking at him like he was less than an insect. V paused outside of Evey's room - the door was closed. He turned down the hallway to his room.

And his good mood shattered like a cheap piece of porcelain. The door was slightly ajar. Without giving himself a moment to collect his feelings - he was too tired for this - he walked into his room. (bloody hell i just want to relax not answer the questions in her eyes this is my room i need not hesitate at my own threshold i will be calm and direct and mild but firm)

'What the bloody hell is going on here?!' (not calm not mild i sound angry i am angry so annoyed control old chap control here what is she doing has yet another piece of my sanity given up the fight pity i have so few left)

Evey considered V's question. It was certainly a valid one; she had never dared to enter his room before, had even avoided going near the door. But he had to have expected a change. He had invaded her privacy in the worst way possible, save for outright rape. So why should she have any respect for his privacy, the sanctity of his resting place?

Admittedly, such thoughts had not led Evey to V's room. She had felt restless, unable to sleep anymore. Her body was healing. She didn't want to read, or watch his movies, or listen to his music. It was all his. It all reeked of him. So, naturally, she had gone to to the one room in the Gallery that was completely V.

She could have been much worse, she calmly rationalized. She had not rummaged through his things, or destroyed his possessions, or hidden somewhere so as to catch a glimpse of what was underneath the mask. Evey had considered each one with a detached intensity, but ultimately had decided against each action. Not out of respect for him. Simply because she wanted to hurt him more deeply than such petty actions could ever accomplish.

Evey had somehow managed to hurt him, it seemed. Judging by his voice - barely contained fury, alarm, even horror - he was hurt. And all she had done was put on his mask.

To be honest, there had been no malicious thoughts behind putting on one of V's extra masks. It had startled her, made her think for a split second that the vigilante was lurking behind her as she explored. Evey had glared at it, really glaring at the man who wore it. When he put on that mask, he became something she could not understand. Evey no longer understood herself.

The mask was lighter than she had expected it to be. It was not the one he wore when he went out into the city, the one with the metal reinforcement. This one was ceramic, and rested easily against her own features.

It smelled like him. Evey could not believe V had something as primal as his own scent. It was warm and oddly reassuring. It let loose a flood of old desires she was sure the time in her cell had killed off. And she was standing there, feeling the weight of his second face, and breathing in his shockingly erotic scent when the actual article had stormed in.

V was frantically trying to figure out how much of what he was looking at was an hallucination. Unfortunately it was becoming extremely clear that his mind was entirely rational. For once, he was severely disappointed. Taking a deep breath, he tried to process what was standing before him.

Evey. Evey in his mask and wig. Wearing a black zippered sweatshirt and low-slung black pants that only accentuated how thin she had become. But it was the mask. It was disorienting. It was Evey and it was not. The mask regarded him, and suddenly V understood why she found it so frustrating. He repeated his question, his voice carefully modulated.

'What is going on here, Evey?' The two masks stared at each other for a long moment.

'I'm not Evey. I'm Guy Fawkes.' V was alarmed by how hollow Evey's voice sounded. The mask had done something to her, made her less real, an incorporeal hallucination. Much like he often fancied himself. Still, he would not allow her to throw him again.

'No, you are not Guy Fawkes. He is dead. You are Evey Hammond in a Guy Fawkes mask. My mask, I might add. In my room.' He took off his hat and walked to his dresser, placing the hat on a nearby table. (this is the way to go perfectly calm i often find young women in my room suffering from multiple personalities)

'Evey Hammond is dead. There is no one here but Guy.' Evey was enjoying herself far too much. V's steps were jerky, and he was clearly disturbed. (How do you like it V?)

'Evey Hammond is not dead. There is a person behind that mask. Now, would you please remove the mask, and I will make you something to eat?' (not working not working) V removed his cloak, placing it in a pile of dirty clothing that desperately needed to be laundered. He was resisting the urge to tear off the mask, to hit the mask - anything to get a reaction. The hypocrisy of this was not lost on him.

'Is there a person behind your mask?' Evey knew she was winning when V froze. Exactly what she was winning was up for debate.

'No. There is an idea. A body, of course, but not a person. Both masks, I might add, are mine.' Evey approached him. Her clean white mask regarded his stained, filthy one. Her mask seemed amused; his, chagrined.

'Then there is no one behind my mask either. Two corpses masquerading as people. You killed me.' V flinched.

'I most certainly did not. Those I kill do not come back and dress themselves in my wardrobe.'

Evey touched his arm. V nearly punched her in the head out of extreme shock. The only physical reaction was a twitch of his left wrist.

'Evey.'

'I am not Evey.'

'Nor are you Guy Fawkes.' Evey considered that. No, she was not Guy Fawkes. But she was no longer Evey Hammond. She was something else.

'Is this what it's always like? Like watching a movie? Does this thing protect you?' One of her hands still rested on his arm; the other touched his mask.

'Sometimes.' V was having trouble breathing. He wanted to see her, but he could not remove the mask. To do so would allow her to remove his. Even her hand resting lightly on the ceramic cheek was making him nervous.

Evey's hand slid down his arm to his wrist. With black eyes resting on black eyes, she brought his stiff, blood-soaked glove to her breast and squeezed. V jerked back as if she was on fire. A shudder ran through his whole body.

'It didn't protect you from that.' Evey took a step closer, so her breasts brushed his chest.

'I have already stated that the protection the mask affords is far from foolproof.' V's voice had adopted a strange, strangled tone. 'But am I addressing Ms. Hammond, or Mr. Fawkes?'

'Mr. Fawkes would never do this.' Evey unzipped the sweatshirt, letting it hang open. She had not bothered with a bra.

'Neither would Ms. Hammond.' V was convinced he was going to have a stroke. He was already exhausted, and his limited social skills did not cover how to handle a masked Evey undressing in front of him, particularly when she was claiming to be someone else.

Evey let her sweatshirt fall off her shoulders. She viewed the growing bulge in V's trousers with a calm interest she could not believe. She had dreamt of this before her incarceration; her dreams had not carried this underlying current of rage.

'Then who am I, V?' He let out that noise she could not define. Annoyed, she suddenly yanked off her pants. V's whole body tensed.

'Take off the mask, Evey.' His voice was hoarse. Evey stood before him, naked except for the mask and wig. V could see the results of her confinement in the bruises on her back and shoulders, could read her torture in the jutting of her ribs and the hollows of her hip bones.

And yet he still desired her. He could see what she had survived. and he wanted her. Like before, there was that self-loathing. Only this time, he could not walk away. Stripped of everything but the mask, she was still more covered than he was, with not an inch of flesh showing.

'I'll take off my mask, when you take off yours.' She took his hand and placed it over her heart. V had shut down. He could only numbly respond. He felt like his whole life had led up to this moment, and he was handling it terribly.

'I can't,' Her heart thudded soothingly beneath his glove and her flesh.

'Do you feel that?' His mask inclined slightly. Hers returned the gesture.

'Conclusive evidence you are not dead.' When had his voice become so weak? He could feel her flesh through the gloves. That had to be it. Smooth and soft and warm and alive. Everything he was not. She was everything he wasn't.

Evey's hand shot between his legs to cup the bulge that had appeared there. V let out a short cry, then slammed his mouth shut. His free hand went to her elbow, but he could not move her hand away for some reason. He was drowning.

'And what is this?' Evey pressed her mask against his chest, listening to him gasp. The blood was pounding in her ears. Everything felt very calm and clear.

'The... I believe... the failure of mind over body.' V was impressed he had answered at all. Part of him wanted to tackle her, to pour out all his rage and suffering and pain into her body, make her a vessel for all that was broken inside him. Another part of him wanted to run back through the tunnels, leave the Gallery, London, leave V. But he simply stood there, feeling her heart rate increase beneath his glove, and her hand gripping him possessively between his unsteady legs.

'Take off the gloves, V.'

'I can't,' This was not a refusal; he simply could not move. It was enough of a challenge to breathe and stand. He had to focus, it seemed, on making his heart beat.

So Evey removed her hands from his body, and his from hers, and peeled off the filthy gloves. V did not stop her. His mind was scrambling to catch up with reality. It even took him a few moments to realize Evey had placed his naked hands on her bare breasts. Her mask was watching him. He hated it.

'Evey.' It was a plea, and a statement. His hands squeezed her firm breasts once, a pure instinct, and he felt her nipples harden in response. The room seemed to spin out of control.

And then she was pushing him toward the bed, his bed, the bed where he had dreamt of her for months. He sat on the edge. She smiled behind the mask, glad he could not see her. Glad that he could not see the love in her eyes. It was disturbing enough that she could still feel that way towards him.

'You tortured me, V.' Her voice whispered out of the mask as she pressed her naked body against his. V had tensed up again, his fingers flexing against her breasts. After a few moments, he removed them, gripping the bed sheets. He looked down at his knees as she moved to his side, her breasts touching his arm.

'Yes. I am aware.' But in his mind, her torture was far more insidious. His had been outright, direct. Just by touching him, Evey was ripping open every scar on his body. 'You need to stop this, Evey.' He was close to begging. Evey's voice never changed; it continued to have that soft, oddly sensual tone.

'No. You don't get to tell me what to do anymore.' She climbed onto his lap. The masks' foreheads made a soft clink as they touched. 'Not anymore.'

'This is not what you want.' V's hands were on her bare hips, the feel of her skin making words seem immaterial. He could feel the heat from between her legs against his aching erection, and it erased all poetry from his mind.

'How can you know what I want? I thought you didn't have wants,' Evey countered, rocking lightly against the bulge. V made a choking noise. The pleasure coursing through him was entirely strange. Nothing had ever felt so good in his life.

'I didn't.' Evey ran her fingernails over his chest. V tried to push her off of him, but ended up wrapping his arms around her, feeling every move of her body. She responded by twining her legs tightly around him, eliciting another moan. She ground her crotch against his, the mask causing her ragged breathing to echo.

'All I feel is pain,' she muttered, eyes closed behind the mask. 'I need to feel something else. You owe me that, V.' His hands slid to her hips, trying to stop their purposeful thrusts. (too good too good nothing never just this evey)

'Revenge, at first thought sweet, Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.' V's voice was unsteady, his hands shaking. Evey reluctantly stopped moving, panting slightly. He took a deep, shuddering breath. 'You are beyond this, Evey. Beyond these petty machinations. What I am -' He paused, unsure of how to continue. 'I am already stained by such a sickness as revenge. Do not mark yourself in such a way; it is a path you cannot return from. Leave this madness, and we will say it was brought upon by your recent ordeal.'

Evey stared at him for a long moment, then stood up. Rather than relief, V felt a sharp, painful sorrow rip through him. Even if her reason for being there had been dangerous, she had been there. Evey could make him forget, forget everything he needed to hold onto. With her, he could let go of the rage and pain, and just be. He could imagine a life beyond the Fifth. And he could not afford that.

But she didn't leave. She stood before him naked, then switched off the light in the room. The door was open enough that their outlines were still visible. She bumped her knees against his lightly, almost playfully. When she spoke, her voice was lower, thicker, and V knew it was not because of the mask.

'Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within.' She spoke clearly, without fear. They had never said the word 'love,' save when they quoted books or films, or talked about what they had read and watched.

V was shaking now. He shook his head a few times, as if clearing his mind of her words. (love love no she hates me hates me she will hate me and be gone and i will be alone again and safe safe and these feelings will die again)

'You said you hated me,' he stated flatly. His voice was not shaking, at least. She would agree, and they would move on. He needed to get her out of his room. Evey needed to leave.

'If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us.' As she spoke, Evey returned to his lap, rubbing the tip of the mask's nose against his chest.

'You've become very well-read,' V murmured into her hair - his hair - the mask's hair. He was unsure when his hands had slid across her back, feeling her slender bones. Want and desire were taking over. He wanted her. She did not need to quote these dead men; just being alive, and near him, was enough. More than enough.

Evey knew she was winning. V should have thrown her out of his room naked, should have yelled at her, something. Instead, he was shuddering against her like he thought she would strike him. His hands on her back were caressing and rough. The anger was melting away. She didn't want to hurt him, although she knew she would. She wanted to stop thinking, and just be with him. He was the only point of focus in her world. The world had stopped, and he was still there.

'V, please.' Her hands went to the front of his pants, and she began to undo them.

A door slammed shut in V's head. Whatever logical argument he had been compiling to convince himself she needed to leave was killed off instantly. Her voice had not been angry or hard or hateful; it had been tender, caring. She was talking to him like he still had a soul.

V rolled on top of her, his breath coming in short, choppy gasps. He pushed her hands above her head, then fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. Evey watched, the feel of being a ghost slipping over her mind. But then he was yanking his pants down, and his weight was on top of her. He was heavy and solid and real.

Evey clung to V as he hesitated. Then he was rubbing the cool mask against her breast, his hand massaging the other with an intensity that frightened her. He had cut himself off; he was lost to her. If she called out to him, he would not hear her.

V needed. He needed in a way that overwhelmed him. Not a need for food or shelter or revenge. A need for her body beneath his, her legs rising up to pull him closer. A need to prove to himself that she could be his, if just for a few moments. That he could have something as real as Evey. His hands roamed over her breasts, squeezing and caressing them, remembering the showers, and the need that had started there. He rubbed his rough fingers against her nipples, and nearly came when she moaned in pleasure.

There was no fear. This had been building since the day they met. Two masks meeting in the darkness. Evey slid her hands up under the back of his shirt, nails running lightly along the flesh of his back. V responded with a low, animalistic growl.

Too fast. Everything was too fast. V wanted to savor this, the feel of his hands on her body. But the mask was unnerving. It stared at him, mocking him, his need. It reminded him of how dangerous this was, this need.

He rubbed his erection against her lower thigh, her inner belly, amazed at how she shuddered and cried out with her own need. The blood was roaring in his ears, and he was fading. Then with a short, sudden thrust, V was inside her, and he was gone.

Evey let out a scream that shook her whole body. It was not just the pleasure of him inside her, or the cruel black joy that she had made him lose such complete control. It was a scream of sorrow, a realization that she had meant what she said. She loved him. Fucked up and twisted and inarguably unhinged. She loved him, and could not even take off her own mask to tell him.

V couldn't stop. He thrust into her furiously, driving against her so hard the bed shook. Her legs were high up his back, and her scent drove him even further inside her. Nothing had ever been like this. His body knew what it was doing, teasing her with rapid, violent strokes then slowing until Evey nearly sobbed with frustration beneath him. But his mind - his usually focused, obsessive mind - was gone. He could not speak. Nothing mattered but this, Evey's mask crashing against his in a strange kiss that probably cracked the ceramic cover on at least one of them. Nothing was important, not even the Fifth, in the time he was inside her, their bodies finally finding a frantic, wild rhythm that neither could stop.

Evey was crying behind the mask, grateful he couldn't tell. He was inside her and he loved her and she would never tell him. The ecstasy of her body warred with the tumult in her mind. His ragged breathing, his hands squeezing her breasts, cupping the cheeks of the mask, digging into her hips - it overwhelmed her. And for these moments, she decided to just be. He loved her. And she loved him. And for this time, that could be enough.

V arched above her, his thrusts becoming even more desperate. Evey met each one without flinching, so close that she could barely breathe. She reached out blindly, her fingers tangling in his wig, pulling his face down to hers. She knew he couldn't kiss her - she knew they would never kiss. But she wanted to hear his breath, hear him cry out as she came. She wanted these intimacies; she knew he would never share this with another living creature. No one would ever know him like this but her.

V's orgasm was so abrupt, so intense, that it startled both of them. He didn't want it. He never wanted this to end. He wanted to always be on the edge, always skirting the grand finale. When he came, he let out a sound that was a mix of a growl and a moan, his whole body clenching as he pulsed inside her. The feel of him, the sound of his ultimate surrender of control, was too much for Evey, and she followed him, the pure pleasure of her climax heightening the sorrow as she came back to herself. V was still gone, lost in this primal joy, and she held him to her, and loved him without shame.

V collapsed onto Evey, still shaking from time to time as his orgasm finally spent itself. Their bodies still joined, he stroked her arm gently. She hooked her leg over his, embracing him fiercely. For a long time they lay like that, each comforting the other as they struggled to regain their equilibrium. Finally, V spoke.

'Evey.' She made a noncommittal grunting noise. The mask was beginning to feel heavy. It was hot, and she had a headache from wearing it. But Evey Hammond could not stay in V's bed. So she didn't.

Carefully disengaging herself from him, Evey pulled off the mask and wig, and dropped them onto the floor. V struggled to sit up; her hand on his shoulder stopped him. He watched her pull her sweatshirt and pants back on. V wanted her again. But to even want her was to want the oblivion she promised; with her, he could forget. And he had already forgotten enough.

'I did not intend this.' As soon as he said it, he wanted to stab himself with his own knives, pull off his mask, anything to give her a visual of how speaking those words had made him feel. But Evey only smiled faintly in the dark room.

'He who wears a mask cannot see within himself.' She waited. V waited. The room hummed.

'There is no one for me to see within. To think otherwise is to delude oneself.' Evey stared at him as he spoke. She picked up the mask she had been wearing, and dropped it beside him on the bed.

'I don't need a mask. I'm not afraid of what's behind it.' Evey spun sharply on her heels and walked out of the room. Never before had she understood how love and hate could be so completely mated. She still wanted him.

V watched her go. She could save him. She could save him. Saving him would ruin everything. He could not let that happen. She made him feel like he existed. He loved her. It was not even worth thinking about. It was the only part of him untainted or diseased, and he would not allow her to suffer. If she was to live, really live, he could not. Fair trade. The world would get her. And death would get a tortured corpse carrying an idea. Her love was the only thing that made him human. But the path was set. He had made his deals with the universe. There would be no going back.

1. John Milton

2. James Baldwin

3. Hermann Hesse


End file.
